


Cane-ash

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Nipple Play, Roleplay, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4090597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil’s amused at how Kíli submits without surrender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cane-ash

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Thranduil shows Kili just how sensitive nipples can be when given proper attention” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=22502379#t22502379).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Kíli could walk right through the doors if he wanted to. They’re at peace, and a prince of Erebor is welcome on any ally’s doorstep, but he must know that he’d only wind up before Thranduil’s throne. Instead, he sneaks by in the dead of night, creeps through the forest, lets the guards catch him and drag him to the dungeon, and when they ask him why, he hisses, _I’ll only speak to the king._

Thranduil chuckles when he hears this. The story’s the same every time. Feren looks confused at his own report, but Thranduil waves him away and descends the throne, sweeping quickly down the twisted halls. Thranduil understands Dwarven stubbornness more than most, and he knows that dwarves like _games_. This is just one more. He dismisses his guards from the dungeon, there being no other prisoners, and he finds his little lover chained at the back of the largest cell, his arms stretched taut above his head. His feet barely touch the ground. He’s been stripped of his coat, armour, and weapons, though they’ll all be returned to him when he’s given leave—when he breathes that one particular word or their illusion naturally comes to its end. Thranduil relinquishes none of his own splendor as he steps inside the bars. He comes to Kíli as a king, crowned and armed.

He taps the end of his staff beneath Kíli’s chin and forces it to tilt up. Kíli grits his teeth, frowning through his ring of stubble. His dark hair’s a wavy mess about him; it could be beautiful, brushed and braided, but not when he sneaks about like a thief in the night and gets himself thrown in dungeons. Perhaps Thranduil will wash and brush it tomorrow. With half-lidded eyes and a raspy voice, Kíli growls, “What offense have I committed now?”

A smirk twists Thranduil’s lips. He lifts an eyebrow and muses, “I do not know. What _have_ you done?” 

Kíli breathes, “I’ll never talk,” as though he has secrets to tell. Thranduil laughs. It’s not even a cleverly thought out game, but Kíli is pretty enough that it doesn’t need to be. Thranduil doesn’t turn away beautiful treats that come to tempt him. He removes his staff, letting Kíli’s head fall, and he leans it against the stone. Kíli jerks against his bonds for show, but they hold tight. He doesn’t ask to be released. Instead, he hisses, “Aren’t you going to make me?”

In some ways, Thranduil prefers the aftermath, where he carries this lovely creature up to his chambers, lays the little prince down in his bed and makes soft, sweet love with skillful hands and roaming kisses. But he doesn’t mind these rough times, these things that get his Kíli so very hot. Even now, all Thranduil has to do is step close enough, and Kíli has a sharp intake of breath, his cheeks flushing pink. Thranduil lowers one hand to Kíli’s waist, long fingers brushing over the coarse fabric to chase the curve of Kíli’s rear, and the other hand slips between tunic and trousers, riding up to trace smooth skin. 

He hikes the tunic up from both sides, scrunching it higher and higher until he’s exposed all of Kíli’s chest, and then he orders, “Open.” Kíli glares, but he obeys, his lips parting. Thranduil stuffs the tattered hem of the tunic inside. He has to pull his fingers away fast to avoid being bitten, but Kíli keeps hold of it, showing off his torso, all the way down to the jut of his hips, where his trousers have fallen low enough to expose the trail of dark curls that dips between his legs. Thranduil only lets his gaze linger a moment. He doesn’t want to get his Kíli’s hopes up, when in truth, he has little time today, and his play will be torturously short. Kíli will have to wait on his hard cock for many hours still. 

But Thranduil is a king, and he can always make time for a _little_ play. He strokes Kíli’s face with one hand, thumbing along the attractive cut off Kíli’s cheekbone, and he places a kiss to Kíli’s forehead. Kíli moans through his mouthful, always so easy to please. 

Then Thranduil bends to kiss between Kíli’s breasts. Kíli arches up into him, flat chest meeting Thranduil’s mouth. Thranduil breathes against it but does no more. If their roles were reveres, Kíli would lick him, lap at him again and again like a kitten with milk, but Thranduil is more restrained and crueler. He turns his face slowly to Kíli’s left nipple, already pebbling in the cold air. Thranduil deliberately breathes over it, giving Kíli only air to rut against, until a whimper makes its way out of Kíli’s mouth. Only for that surrender does Thranduil presses his tongue against it, dragging slowly around the little circle. 

Kíli’s nipples don’t take much to arouse. With only one at a time, Thranduil gives gradual, languid licks that make Kíli hiss and grit his teeth, looking like he wants to _beg_ for more but hasn’t yet been stripped of his pride. Thranduil is patient. He scrapes his teeth lightly along the little nub that pebbles for him, and then he sucks it into his waiting mouth, suckling once at his lover’s breast. Sometimes, Kíli whines so very much and the buds harden so thoroughly that Thranduil almost expects to draw milk, but instead all he earns is Kíli’s delicious cries. Thranduil doesn’t relinquish his hold until he’s sucked Kíli’s nipple raw. When he pulls off, Kíli gasps. Thranduil lifts his thumb and forefinger to tweak it, and Kíli winces. He looks like his eyes might water. Thranduil pinches _hard_ , twisting it slightly, until Kíli screams, muffled around the fabric, “No, please—!”

Thranduil lets go immediately. Kíli gives a choked sob that Thranduil ignores. He makes his way to the other nipple, tweaking it before licking it and sucking it inside. He repeats his movements, eyes lazily watching the other one, turned red from stimulation and Thranduil’s spit. It glistens in the pale light, calling to be teased. Thranduil waits until he’s suckled Kíli’s other nipple as much as it can take, and Kíli’s squirming in his bonds, forcing the chains to rattle. 

Pulling back, Thranduil can’t help but admire the view. Kíli’s still arching forward, like he longs to be touched, even though both his nipples look thoroughly abused, and he’s trembling, breathing hard. The fabric in his mouth is wet. His cheeks are completely flushed. For all the ugliness of most dwarves, this one is _gorgeous_ , and Thranduil smirks to himself for his own prowess at ensnaring such a prince. Kíli writhes against the stone wall, begging Thranduil to fuck him with his eyes. 

Thranduil has other things to do. He would dismiss them, of course, if his pet needed it, but Kíli is still a dwarf, and he’s too stubborn to surrender. He doesn’t speak the words his body already gives away. So Thranduil dips down to take both over-sensitive nipples in his hands. Kíli screams the second Thranduil tugs forward, but Thranduil kisses him at the same moment, filling his mouth with tongue and swallowing the cries. The tunic’s dropped, pushed away, though the bland taste lingers. Thranduil pulls Kíli forward as far as he can, squeezing tight. Then he rubs them in circles, torturing Kíli’s breast while he claims Kíli’s lips, drinking down every last desperate plea.

He can feel Kíli’s cock hard against his leg. But he pulls away when Kíli tries to hump him. He releases Kíli’s mouth and chest, stepping back to watch Kíli pant and slump. The tunic stays mostly in place, though Kíli’s tongue has fallen out of his mouth, panting like a dog. There’s a tiny wet patch against the front of his trousers—he spills pre-release so easily. Thranduil memorizes the sight, though he has a hundred more like it. 

Then he fetches his staff, abruptly turns, and heads out of the chamber, ignoring Kíli’s undignified cry. Over his shoulder, he calls, “Let my guards know when you wish to talk.” And he shuts the bars behind him.


End file.
